


dicks out for goro

by orphan_account



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 18:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14575158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Everyone's a critic





	dicks out for goro

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this around april of last year and its been chilling in my gdocs ever since. uhh doing the alt account + orphan thing bc while shitposty achy shoe ache is my brand, not sure i wanna this publicly associated with my account.
> 
> bad formatting bc mobile, sorry

“We're opening in fifteen!” Soujiro says, knocking on the bathroom door.

“Got it.” Akira replies, tucking himself back in and zipping up his fly. He washes his hands quickly, pulling his shirt down to hide the tent in his pants as he makes his way back up to the attic. 

Morgana is there, as usual, this time perched on a shelf. He's spread out, eyes closed and carefully intertwined between the decorations, so Akira takes the time to lie down on his bed and pull up his gallery on his phone.

He picks the most recent picture, cropping it to focus on its subject, throwing in a couple of filters for good measure.

Akira's halfway between deciding whether sepia is really necessary or not, when he hears Morgana move.

His roommate stretches slowly, yawns, and turns to face him.

“Are you planning stuff with the others?” Morgana asks, making his way over to the bed.

“Not really,” Akira says, shifting the screen out of Morgana’s (and his own) line of sight, saving it quickly. He works off memory, scrolling down on his screen long enough to reach Akechi’s name on his contacts, tapping the bottom right corner to send.

He shuts the screen off right after, pocketing his phone, and turning to Morgana.

“Is there anything you wanted to talk about?” He asks.

 

Fifteen minutes later, after Morgana had aired out each and every one of his grievances (apparently cats aren't supposed to drink coffee, Akira makes a mental note of that one), he leaves the attic, tail swishing in his wake.

Akira pulls his phone back out, only to find out that he's swamped with messages.

He scrolls all the way down, reading his way back up.

The first is from Yusuke. A barrage of question marks. The second is also from Yusuke.

And so is the third. The fourth, the fifth, and so on and so forth. It ends somewhere around the lines of  _ are you propositioning me _ and Akira almost drops the phone in his scramble to deny everything.

_ Sorry _ , He types.  _ Meant to send this to someone else. _

_ I see _ , Yusuke replies.

And then.  _ Your composition needs some work. _

Another.  _ That angle was atrocious. _

Akira stares at the screen blankly.

_ I'm trying my best _ , he sends.

There's a pause—the message  **Yusuke is typing** flashing on and off at the bottom of the app.

It goes on for what seem like hours, only broken by three damning words.

_ I can help. _

Followed by one less:  _ Come over _ .

Akira attempts to dodge.  _ I'm busy. Need to make more lockpicks. _

_ It's no problem _ . Comes the reply, seconds later.  _ I'll drop by instead. _

Akira faces the ceiling. He asks all the gods (he never worshipped) why this is happening to him.

He is met with only silence. This, Akira concludes, is what their laughter must sound like.

 

The bell at the door rings half an hour later. Akira hears Sojiro greet the arrival, offering a cup of coffee, a plate of curry on the house. A familiar voice declines with  _ perhaps after I'm done _ . Footsteps follow, growing heavier the close they get; a figure appearing between one step and the other.

He's dressed normally, more or less. Old uniform pants, the edges starting to fray. A light jacket, a present from Ann. Hair neatly combed, not a strand out of place.

The only thing strange: the school bag swung around an arm.

Yusuke walks forward, a wave, a greeting, and opens it with a flourish. Smiling, he pulls out his implements. A pair of handcuffs. A tub of sugar wax. A selfie stick. Several feet of twine.

“Yusuke?” Akira's voice comes out weak, almost raspy. He hopes Yusuke isn't implying what he thinks he is. “What's all this?”

“For your picture, of course.”

_ Of course _ . Akira tries again. “Are you sure that–”

“–There’s no need to worry,” Yusuke interrupts, waving him off. “I have studied this topic extensively.”

And so he has. Yusuke shows him at least five different tabs with articles pertaining to the art of dick pic taking—five more than Akira ever thought there would be.

He speaks enthusiastically, sexual organs were commonly depicted in art (thanks ancient perverts) and under a wide variety of themes. Yusuke clenches his fist as he waxes poetic about Great Works of Sad Horny, a contrast from his usual sex judgemental self. God, Akira would do anything to get Kinkshaming Yusuke instead.

Today's Yusuke, however, hands him the twine with a smile and tells him  _ to let it encompass his message _ .

Akira stares at it for a minute. Back at Yusuke, then the twine again. “It'll chafe,” He says.

“But imagine the amount of dimension this could add to your pictures!” Yusuke’s voice rises as he grows more passionate. “A hand is one thing but it can't do much without blocking the subject itself.”

“But this!” He continues with an outstretched hand. “This will be able to twist your desires to any shape you want! So you can capture it from any angle you deem fit!”

“It'll chafe,” Akira repeats. “Besides, wouldn't this also block a fair amount as well?”

Yusuke shakes his head.

“It's a metaphor,” he says, with something akin to pity in his eyes. “It represents how your soul is chained.”

 

That night, they all meet up at LeBlanc. Sojiro closed up early, giving them free reign with a promise that Futaba would be back home before midnight and a lecture about how too much noise would lead to too much attention (eyes fixed on Ryuji for the latter).

Haru brings drinks, but not the alcoholic kind. Because yeah, she sure is two steps away from dating Makoto. And yeah, fucking the system might be their brand—but if Sojiro found out they were encouraging Futaba to drink underage, they'd be too screwed to even go anywhere on the whole societal reformation train.

So yeah, here they are, drinking Haru’s fancy rich people sparkling juice, playing whatever drinking games they've watched others play in movies but with a few exceptions, never tried themselves. Thanks to, you know, being social outcasts with little to no friends.

And with the King’s game being a disaster, shoutout to Morgana for assuming that every number he picked would magically turn out to be Ann, they switch to a nice round of perfectly vindictive Never Have I Ever.

Futuba, courtesy of knowing everything about everyone, slaughters them all with incredibly specific statements.  _ Never have I ever tried to con someone into teaching me shoji _ , ha ha ha.

But it's Ryuji who destroys them—and by them Akira means himself specifically—with a simple  _ uh i've never sent or received nudes _ .

Yusuke drains the glass immediately, having eyed it for the better part of their game, and Ryuji’s eyes bug out right then and there.

“Wait,” He says. “You didn't–“

He turns, wide-eyed to Ann, and breathes a sigh of relief when he notices her full glass.

He switches targets to Akira right after, eyes beseeching, an unsaid  _ do you know who it is? _

Akira lifts his own glass and slowly takes a sip.

The first voice he hears, is naturally, Ryuji. He chokes and coughs, draining his own glass to stop an incoming fit (isn't it nice, they're part of a club now) and whisper screams  _ you're fucking yusuke?? _

Ann joins in with an eager  _ oh when did you start dating? _ as Futaba falls off her barstool. Makoto and Haru are quieter but no less interested; Morgana ignoring the conversation like a true best friend.

“We're not,” Yusuke says, unphased. He fills a new glass for himself. “I was merely giving him pointers.”

And that prompts a round of raised eyebrows and now Akira can't just ignore the problem in hopes of it going away because now they think he asks for constructive criticism on his dick pics. He sighs.

“I was sending them to Akechi,” Akira admits.

His voice is soft, but it carries across the café, bringing everyone and everything to a halt.  For a minute, nobody moves. Then, Makoto speaks.

“Akira,” She says, shifting uncomfortably. “Akechi is  _ dead _ .”

Akira forces out an exhale. It clings to his lungs, windpipe, every step of the way. Something as simple as breathing becomes painful.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

 

The party ends soon enough, any festive mood effectively ruined. Haru drops Futaba off; the others stay behind after to help clean up. But after a while, they too leave, with significant looks and offers of a sympathetic ear. And soon, it's just him, Morgana asleep upstairs, with a heavy heart and a roll of twine in his arms.

In minutes, he's sending another message to a recipient long gone.  _ Thinking of you _ , Akira types in. His fingers are slow across the keys, careful, lest he makes any typos.

He adds on a heart emoticon at the end as a final measure — hits send, and watches it go. 


End file.
